A Bright Spot

Like most everyone, my young six year old son and I were on a budget this summer. No new mouse ears and no new found seashells. I'd finished the supper dishes, my son already in a daze before the television. What a waste of summer I thought as I picked up the phone to call one of my three sister's. I told her of my blues and the guilt I felt that no big trip could be planned. Much to my surprise she quickly reminded me of my birth order in our family and how I, the oldest and the bossiest, made sure all us girls had plenty to do over our long summer breaks, whether they wanted to do it or not. "Oh good lord, that was forty years ago", I told her, "kids aren't interest in broomstick ponies, mud pies or homemade big black trash bag slip-n-slides". "Well maybe not" she said, "but there's always my favorite, and I still do it . . . guess". Not wanting to play her guessing game, I reminded her that the men with the white coat with sleeves that tie in the back, and rooms with padded walls still exist, and hoped she wasn't doing her favorite thing in plain view of her neighbors. "Goober", she said. It's important that I add here we weren't allowed to call each other or even use the word "goober" when we were children, as even the whisper of the word magically produced a hickory switch in my mother's hand. We're all in our forties now, and purposely sneak in a "goober" or two when our mother is around. The hickory switch is gone, and it doesn’t help that our father snickers with us now instead of backing her up, but she can still turn our four names into a one syllable word "MaryKatherineMargaretFrancis" if we ruffle her feathers.

My sister then asked if I remember what happened at dusk in the pecan groves. "Oh yes!" I told her, "but are they still around? I never see them". She promised they were. I waited for dusk and I asked my son to join me out side. Our first stop was the shed to get an old mason jar with small holes punched out on the lid. From there we walked down to the edge of the woods, sat down and waited. “What are we doing mama”, my son asked. “Just wait baby, you’ll see”, I told him. It didn’t take long for my old friends to show up. My son’s gasp welcomed them and I was six years old again. My baby sister reminded me that our best memories aren’t always made in amusement parks or week long trips, they can happen in our own back yard. For the remainder of that summer, when the sun went down, my son and I went to our special place where we chased, caught and danced with the lightning bugs.